


Love of his Fucking Life

by trophic



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Kink Meme, Mechanical sex, Other, Stargate Atlantis Kink Meme, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-06 14:21:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trophic/pseuds/trophic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John would do anything for Atlantis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love of his Fucking Life

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to the Stargate Atlantis Kink Meme. Slightly edited and revised.

"Oh, come on," Rodney grouses. "You'd do anything for her. You might as well just admit it."

"Not...anything," John says, because it never hurts to be cautious, especially around Rodney. "And it's a little creepy when you talk about Atlantis like she's a girl."

"Oh, please," Rodney says with a roll of his eyes. "Like you never do that yourself. Now quit stalling and get in the pod already."

John eyes the curved cover of the newly discovered chamber in question. It looks like a stasis pod on an Aurora-class ship, only slightly taller and quite a bit narrower. "I'm not going to fit in there."

"Don't be ridiculous," Rodney says. "I fit just fine, and you're what, half an inch taller?"

"Three inches," John says, just to be annoying. It's really only two, but it's not his fault his hair needs a little extra room. "So why don't you do it yourself?"

Rodney scowls. "I couldn't get it to initiate. It kept giving me some song and dance about insufficient gene expression. Which," he adds, "is patently ridiculous. My gene is every bit as good as yours."

John eyes the narrow, dark pod. "You sure we can't do this from the control chair?"

"Positive," Rodney says. "Look, we are desperate, here. We need the city's automatic repair system online, and this is the only way to control it. So I need you." He points to the center of John's chest. "In there." His finger swings toward the pod.

"Great," John says, wishing not for the first time that they'd found a better way to protect the city from the X-borg attack or whatever the hell those creatures call themselves. But if there was ever a time when the city needed repairs, it's now. "All right. Here goes nothing."

He sits down, sliding his feet into the pod, only to find there's no way to fit both his legs and his head in. "Hey," he says to Rodney, who's watching him impatiently. "This thing's built for a ten-year-old. There is nowhere near enough room in here."

"You have to bend your legs a little," Rodney admits. "Just kind of shoe-horn them in there."

"Fantastic," John says, and tries it. If he folds his legs until they brush the cover of the pod, he can slide far enough down to get his head in. He only hopes he won't be in here for too long. "Okay," he says when he's as comfortable as he's going to get. "Go ahead and fire her up."

Rodney's fingers dance on his tablet, and then the pod cover closes over John's head. He shuts his eyes, waiting for some sort of virtual reality to kick in, but nothing does, so he opens them again only to find the inner surface of the pod-cover bright with text. In Ancient, of course.

"McKay," John says into his radio, and at the same time beams his best "no place like home" thoughts to whatever pod interface there might be. But his radio remains silent and the pod doesn't open. "Fine," John says. "Show me some damn schematics, at least."

That works. A map of the city comes up, festooned in red to indicate the damaged areas. There's way too much red. 

_There,_ John thinks, doing his best to indicate where the most critical areas are. The pod hums in response, and John thinks it feels warmer. And then there's an audible click and he feels the pod interface connect to him, not in a virtual reality at all, but deeper, somehow, like a noninvasive probe is reading his mind without him needing to consciously direct it. It's almost pleasant not to have to do anything. Maybe he'll just close his eyes, kick back, and have a bit of a--

"Jesus, _fuck,"_ John hisses, because that's not a noninvasive probe. That's, _holy shit,_ something long and cool that's just ripped straight through the seat of his pants and is sliding up his ass.

He jerks, trying to get away from it, but he's too late and there's no room to maneuver. "McKay!" he shouts into his radio, but the connection is dead, and there's a fucking huge alien wand shoving its way inside him. _Off_ he thinks frantically. _Get that damn thing out of me,_ and the pressure eases a little. It doesn't pull out, but it stops pushing in, and then it starts moving gently, sliding back and forth inside him like it's asking a question.

Only this is _Atlantis_ and it's not sentient, or if it is, it's ignoring the fact that he's already given his answer. _Off, God damn it,_ John tries again, but the thing just undulates and curls, stroking him on the inside, and he jerks again for an entirely different reason.

"Crap," John says softly, and the probe takes that as some sort of cue and strokes the same spot again. "I didn't say 'more,'" John snaps, but of course it's a machine, and it keeps right on doing whatever the hell it was programmed by those fucked-up Ancients to do.

Right, well if Atlantis is a girl, she's apparently a toppy one with a strap-on, and that is just not something John has ever wanted. Not with a woman, and the few times he's been with men he's always been happy with hand jobs and blow jobs. He's never figured he'd bend over for anyone short of the love of his fucking life, but Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, the thing inside him is _bendy._

"Please tell me you're working on the repairs," John gasps, and the diagram on the inside of the pod's lid flashes once, with the segment he indicated now purple rather than red. He hopes that means what he thinks it means.

The probe -- rod, dildo, whatever -- feels almost like it's growing inside him. It's body-heat warm, now, like it's alive. Only it isn't; he knows it isn't. It's some kind of metal _tentacle,_ and fuck, it really is getting bigger. It's pressing into him harder again, filling him, stretching him until it burns.

 _Out,_ he screams at it silently. _Get the fuck out of my ass._ But it's moving again, writhing against the spot that makes him see sparks, and his hips jerk of their own accord as he pants and sweats.

This can't be happening. He's getting fucked by the city of Atlantis, and the tentacle -- now that he's named it that, he can't think of it as anything else -- seems to be growing again. He doesn't want this; he's never wanted this, but he's so hard he can feel the seam of his fly against the swollen head of his cock.

Apparently he picked a really bad day to go commando.

Wait, is that it? Did Atlantis scan him and decide the lack of underwear means he wants it? Or does everyone who uses this pod get rammed up the ass?

It's huge inside him now, so big he feels split open, so deep he can't even imagine how long it is. He can feel it ripple along its whole length, once, twice, three times. And then it starts to pull out.

John holds his breath. Maybe it's finally realized he doesn't want this. Maybe he's passed its stupid test. But then it slams back into him and he arches and cries out. It's so hard, so wrong, so fucking good.

It slides out and back in again, does it a third time, does it too many times to count. It's fucking him, pumping in and out, hitting every nerve inside him with each thrust. Against his will, he's flexing to meet it, tipping his hips to get the perfect angle, sweating and swearing.

Because yes, that's his voice. His words, saying _faster, harder, deeper._ His cock, rubbing against the rough fabric that encases it, begging for more, for mercy, for release.

Then he feels another tentacle snake along his stomach under his rucked-up uniform shirt. It slides up to pinch one of his nipples and he cries out again, arching to press against it. He tries to lift a hand to touch it and only then realizes there are more tentacles wrapped around his wrists, holding them fast.

"Please," he begs, broken and desperate. "Fuck, just do it."

It isn't exactly articulate, but Atlantis knows what he wants. The tentacle across his chest tweaks each nipple one more time and then slides down his torso and into his pants. John gasps when it touches the base of his cock, wrapping warm coils around him. It teases the head of his cock with feather-light touches, timed perfectly to the thrusts inside him, teases and teases him until he thinks he's going to explode.

And then, without warning, the tentacle around his cock unwraps and the one inside him slides out and he's left like that, empty and gasping.

"What the fuck?" John says. He lifts a hand -- his wrists are apparently free now -- and swipes his forehead, noticing for the first time that the purple areas on the map in front of him are now a healthy blue.

"No," he hears his voice say. "No fucking way. You can't do that and leave me hanging. Who the hell programmed you, anyway?"

The pod hums pleasantly.

"Don't go telling me it was good for you," John says. "Because you know damn well it wasn't good for me."

The note changes to one that sounds almost apologetic, and crap, he's arguing with a machine. A machine that just fucked him.

"Okay, whatever," John says. "If you're done, let me out."

But the humming note changes again to something brighter, and John feels a metal finger probe the torn seat of his pants. It isn't pushing inside, just touching him, and he knows he should argue, tell the damn city he isn't going to be its whore. But he's so hard he fucking hurts and his ass feels like it's been abandoned and if he had to get reamed, he at least deserves to get off.

So when the tentacle strokes gently against him, he clenches his thighs and presses against it until it finds the hole in his pants and then the hole of his ass and slides inside.

It is, if anything, bigger than before. John tilts his head back with a groan and takes the whole immense length of it. It gives him one hard stroke after another, and then, thank God, the second tentacle comes back, too, wrapping around his cock and stroking him again, this time with intent.

He's full in a way he's never wanted before, being milked by a relentless, impersonal machine, and it's like nothing he's ever felt. He wants more and he wants it to last and he needs...

Another tentacle brushes the side of his neck and slides into his mouth. It's cool and smooth and bigger than any cock he's ever sucked, and it presses in so deep he gags and has to swallow hard to keep from gagging some more. But he can take it; he can take it all, and when the tentacle inside him swells and twists and the one around his cock squeezes hard, he just closes his eyes and arches his back and comes.

The tentacles release him slowly, first the one in his mouth and then the one around his cock and finally, with a series of swells and ripples, the one up his ass. And then he has to open his eyes.

His hair is damp on his forehead, his pants are sticky and rapidly cooling, his ass aches like a motherfucker, and he's utterly mortified. He just let a machine fuck him. He just begged a machine to fuck him, and he got exactly what he asked for. He isn't sure he's going to be able to sit down anytime in the next week.

The display blinks in front of him, the diagram replaced by a wall of Ancient text again.

"I've got no idea what you're trying to tell me," John says, and then adds, because he really isn't ready to face Rodney yet, "You want to give me another couple of minutes, here?" 

But of course the damn thing won't listen to him now. Before he even has a chance to wipe his sweaty forehead, the pod lid is lifting, letting in outside air to cool his overheated skin.

"Oh my God," Rodney says, staring at him. "What happened to you in there?"

John sits up, surreptitiously tugging his uniform shirt down over the stain in his pants. "The interface is kind of...intense," he manages.

"I think I can see that," Rodney says. "You look like you just ran a marathon in there."

"Pretty much," John says. There's no way to check the back of his pants, so he has no idea if the hole there shows skin. He gets to his feet, careful to face Rodney, resisting the urge to tug his shirt down again. "It do any good?"

Rodney glances back at his screen, but he's answering before he had time to check the data. "Yes, actually. Whatever you did in there just bought us the ability to use the shield. For short periods, most likely, but we're a lot better off than we were before."

"Cool," John says, doing his best to act nonchalant. It's kind of hard when he's just been fucked so hard he's having trouble standing straight. 

"We could use a lot more, though" Rodney goes on. "I mean, it's great to have the shield online, but there's enough structural damage to keep you in that pod for weeks, and that's already taking into account all of the manual repairs Zelenka's working on."

"Jesus." John can't help the way his ass clenches at the thought, or the shiver of pain and pleasure that runs through him as a result.

"Of course, if you're too tired, I can always get Lorne to take a stab at it," Rodney says. "There's no reason it shouldn't recognize his gene."

"No!" John hears himself say, and it comes out so raw and desperate that he cringes. But there's no way he's sharing. This is his city. His secret. His fucking tentacles. "I mean, I'll be fine. Whenever you need me."

Rodney turns back to his screen, apparently oblivious, and John has never been more grateful for anything in his life. "I need to run a few diagnostics to see the extent of what you did," Rodney says. "Shall we try this again in about an hour?"

 _An hour? Holy fuck,_ John thinks, but apparently he really would do anything for Atlantis, because all he says is, "I'll be here," and his cock twitches against the clammy inside of his pants at the thought.


End file.
